


The Maiden's Flowers

by Alayne_StoneColdFox



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Daddy Kink, F/M, Fictional Religion & Theology, Loss of Innocence, Pseudo-Incest, Slut Shaming, Uncle/Niece Incest, Virginity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 10:49:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8369404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alayne_StoneColdFox/pseuds/Alayne_StoneColdFox
Summary: Maiden's day, a holy day, where those who are yet un-spoiled by the sin of lust pray to the septs for keeping them pure of thought, of body, of mind. A day where young girls lay pure white candles, and hang garlands around the mother's neck, singing songs of innocence.Sansa will partake in all of that, her chastity still in tact. She will pray and kneel before the maiden without guilt.For kisses and touches and stolen glances do not count, surely?Her father assures her they don't.





	

Petyr Baelish walked briskly through the emptying halls of the Gates of the Moon, his arms laden with books and ledgers, the pads of his fingers stained with ink from a days work. The sun was setting, people were retiring to rest before they would be expected down to dinner, and the brisk cold of evening nipped at his hands as he wished he had brought his gloves. 

The apartments the Royces had allocated to little lord Robin, and by extension, himself as Lord protector and his daughter Alayne, were more than generous. A receiving chamber and a hearth room, which branched off to bed chambers for each of them. They were generous hosts, especially the Lady Myranda, in her efforts to entertain. She dreamt up some sort of fancy for every moment of the day. In the afternoons she would host picnics, go riding with any courtiers and ladies who would care to join her. The men would play at archery and harmless sword fights with blunted blades, with the ladies sitting by, waving favours for their favourites under shaded pavilions. In the evenings there were dances and plays, tableaus to entertain, with games of cards and dice played before a roaring fire, everyone gambling and laughing and making merry. She made sure that no day was left dull.

In truth, Petyr did not partake in too much of it. He watched from the windows, down to the courtyards, the laugher rising up to where he sat at his desk. He was invited of course, sometimes quite ardently by Myranda herself, and while he made sure to show his face, often enough to be polite, the reality was there was too much to be done to allow himself to get carried away with such fancies. Besides, it wouldn’t do to have the other Vale lords watch him gallivanting around with their daughters and sons, the knights and the knaves, if he was to invent himself as the sombre widower. The Lord protector to sickly little Robin Arryn. A responsible man, whom to entrust their money and their armies. Myranda would huff and pout and claim he was acting such a bore, but Petyr Baelish was a man not easily swayed. Not even when she goaded him by pressing her arms together, leaning forward across the dinner table to push her breasts together in her bodice. He always made sure to glance down charitably, flirt with her in turn, as that at least seemed to keep her happy even when he would inevitably refuse her.

Sansa however was free to play all she wanted, and had taken to court life as he had hoped she would. She did not have to act the lady of the keep here. There were no chores to dole out, no household to oversee. She was a guest, and a pretty and popular one at that. She still tended to Robin Arryn, and dressed more modestly as a bastard girl would, but he noticed how much less melancholy she was. Her sad eyes had brightened a touch, to be surrounded by girls her own age, to forget the threats that lay outside this castle and distract herself with fancy.

Sometimes Petyr dreaded to be the one to remind her of those threats. Torn between turning her into an enlightened protégé or keeping her a pretty little fool. He wanted both. He loved when he watched her pour over ravens he handed her, correspondence from Kings Landing, saw her decipher the hidden meanings in the innocuous writings.

‘The first letter of each new line is the real message!’ she had burst into his solar late at night after she had figured it out after days of attempts, excited by her own cleverness, so proud of herself, as he was of her. She sat with him and they re-read it together. News of Cersei’s trial.

Of course, that was the point that he would draw her onto his lap, wearing only her nightgown and robe, and he would ask what this un-covered information meant, and she would look at him with doe eyes and parted lips and she wouldn’t know. Ask him to tell her what this meant for them both.

Perhaps this was what it was like to truly be a father. To have a child you needed to raise to face the world in all its cruelty, while simultaneously wanting to keep them un-spoiled and in your arms forever. 

He entered the chamber to find it warm with the light of candles and a lit hearth.

A serving girl stoked the coals with an iron prong, as Sansa sat on the woven rug before the fire, an array of ribbons and thread lay scattered around her as she clutched a needle and a certain colourful something in her hand. Making something of some sort, but it wasn’t clear what. 

At his entering, both young girls turned their heads to look his way.

“Father,” Sansa greeted, while the serving girl scrambled up from her knees with little dignity to give an embarrassingly deep bow.

“M’lord.” She said, in a voice he barely heard.

Sansa had informed him her name was Sybil. He hadn’t deigned to ask her himself. A mousy name for an equally mousy girl, though sweet natured enough, and who had taken well to caring for Robins plethora of wants and needs, which was good in a way of relief for Sansa’s dealings with the boy, but all the same, Petyr often thought he’d ought to replace her with a more impartial type. It would be best for later on.

“Is Lord Robin abed already?” he asked, his mind drifting to his ward as he handed her his heavy cloak as he swung it off his shoulders.

“Yes, M’lord. He didn’t get much sleep last night because of sickness, and the birds woke ‘im up in the morn and he wouldn’t go back down. I tried to get ‘im to nap in the day like, so he’d be fit to go down for dinner with you and Lady Alayne, but he was-“

“Yes, yes,” he cut her off with a curt smile “I’m not faulting you my girl, no need to worry. Just make sure to have some hard bread and cheese or some such meal on hand, should he wake in the night and cause a fuss because he’s hungry.”

“Yes, yes of course, m’lord. I’ll go to the kitchens right now to see to it-“ she said, hurrying to the door, still carrying his cloak bundled in her arms.

“You plan to hang my cloak in the kitchens cellars, do you?” he called out after her, making her double back, red faced, to his chamber.

“You’d perhaps think Lord Nestor would impart more experienced girls to attend to their future Liege Lord when guesting in their castle.” Petyr muttered, once the mouse was out of earshot, lowering himself into the chair behind where Sansa sat.

She turned around to face him with an amused smile.

“She is good though. She plays with Robin for hours without complaint and even sings him songs. Told me she has four little brothers at home, though two died of fever, so I should say had. I'd say it makes her a touch sentimental towards Robin.”

“I can’t say ‘sentimental’ is a trait that has ever endeared me to one’s person.”

“I shouldn’t think you need to be endeared to ones serving girl, as long as she keeps the fires stoked and the beds turned down to your liking.”

“True. I can’t say she’s ever fluffed a pillow in an unsatisfactory way. Though she rambles on uninterestingly when I simply don’t ask….and she’s ever so plain. Mousy.”

“Mousy?”

‘You wouldn’t get half a penny for her’ he could explain in the terms of a brothel keeper, but he decided he shan’t go there.

At that Sansa pulled her skirts up to kneel closer to where he sat, beckoning him down to whisper with her, which of course he was happy to oblige “You know she has told me she is scared of you.” Sansa smiled with him at that.

“Scared of me?” he said in mock surprise “Why, sweetling, you should tell her I am nothing but a pussycat.”

“And yet you compare her to a mouse?”

Petyr’s smile grew. He liked it when her wit sparkled. His influence, he liked to think. She was close enough for her to let him tuck a hand under her chin. Light enough to be affectionate, but with a look that was anything but.

“Well, you should tell her I am nothing but harmless to sweet young girls, then. To set her mind at ease.” He almost purred, watching Sansa’s smile falter only slightly.

Then the footsteps of dear Sybil could be heard, and Sansa willed herself away, and his hand drew back to his side.

She departed in silence and then it was only them, with the sun now fully set.

Sansa reached back to pick up and resume with whatever she had been busying herself with, and Petyr saw that it looked like she’d cut a series of shapes from different fabrics and begun threading them together. A few raggedy looking pieces looked as if they’d been discarded, with strings of loose thread all about the rug.

“And what is it my daughters making now then? They look a touch like flowers.”

“They are flowers. At least they’re trying to be.” She said, once again taking up her needle and focusing her attentions to it.

“Appliques to go on your dresses?” He asked. She tended to complain of them being dull, after all. Greys and browns and olive greens. Bastard colours, where he knew she longed for peach pink silk or velvet damask. Or perhaps that was simply what he envisioned her in? Either way, he was sure she would prefer it, even if it lay unsaid.

“No, it’s to be a crown of flowers.” She picked up a finished piece, thick red fabric petals wrapped around each other and stitched, to look somewhat like a rose. If one squinted.

“Very beautiful,” he said, having been handed the stitched rose, twirling it in his fingers “A crown of roses you say? Such creativity, but what for? Is this to be the new fashion among you young girls?”

“It is for maidens day.”

“Ah, of course.”

Maidens day. He hadn’t realised it was so close in the calendar but he supposed it was coming up to that time. One of the more popular holidays of the Seven, the day celebrating all the chaste young virgins in their maidenhood. Where only girls un-touched were able to set foot inside the septs to light tall white candles at the maidens feet and hang garlands about her neck, while singing songs of innocence. To pray that they remain un-spoiled, un-broken, un-fucked by horrid sinners until the day of their wedding when said sin doesn’t count anymore, of course.Then they get to be un-special, like everyone else, and no longer get a day celebrating their dreadfully precious little cunts anymore. 

Maiden girls usually, as some twee tradition, made themselves crowns of flowers to wear throughout the day, to let everyone know that were still young and fresh and lovely. Wreaths of baby’s breath, or simple daisy chains for commoners and sometimes elaborate creations of exotic blooms for the more ostentatious noble born. 

“And why have you deigned yourself to making false flowers, my sweet? As pretty as they are.”

“Because all of the prettiest flowers have started to die off in this cold. Only a few are still in bloom and healthy, those or just plain daisy’s from the fields, and I just know every other girl will pick them to use for their crown, and so everybody will have the same.”

Petyr smiled “and you wouldn’t make do with having the same as everybody else?”

“Well, how awfully dull? Don’t you think? I thought to myself the other day, I’d much rather have white lily’s, though I knew I was being silly to think I could have real ones. Then I wished I could sew myself flowers like I do dresses, and then I wondered if that was such a silly idea as it sounded. Lily’s were hard to make, I found, but I had this red fabric and I’ve settled to try for roses.”

Petyr still held the little rosette in his hand, holding it up to the light of the fire and inspecting it.

“This material you’ve used though, it’s a little thick, don’t you think? Especially for the delicacy of a rose. Satin is what I’d say you need. Red satin…or even white satin. You mightn’t be able to have white lily’s but white roses should look just as charming. More virginal, even.”

She blushed “but I have already made three of the roses…”

“Yes, but consider this, sweetling….Red roses….a very passionate flower. Very beautiful of course, I can see why you’re drawn to it. How ever It’s a strong symbol of love and lust. The kind of flower a man gives a woman he desires.”

He bent his hand back down towards Sansa, where she took it from his palm, gingerly, looking at it in new light.

“So, you are saying it would perhaps be… improper to wear on Maidens day?”

“I would say it would perhaps make a statement. Especially since you would be the only such girl to wear deep red satin flowers amidst a sea of innocent daisy chains.”

Sansa seemed in thought, head bent, as she too twirled the little rose between her thumb and forefinger.

“I do not have any white satin to make new ones with…”

“You say that as if you can’t ask your kind Father, sat right now before you, ever so nicely for some? Come here, sweetling. To my lap.”

She only hesitated a moment, before coming obediently, tucking her skirts under her bottom before sitting herself neatly upon his knees, where his arm came around her to draw her in where she nestled. He looked to her, waiting, and she flushed in slight embarrassment, still looking down at the little flower in her hands.

“Please may I have some satin to make my roses, father? White satin?” she asked demurely, playing along.

“Of course, dear girl, since you ask so sweetly, how could I say no?”

She laughed a little at the tone he took, and at that he pinched the rose from her fingers.

“Now if I am to do such a kind thing for you, maybe you could do a kindness for me in turn? Let me keep this rose. The first special one you made. Would that be a fair trade to you, sweetling?”

“I suppose I don’t mind….” She said, trying her best not to look flattered at the quite haphazardly made thing being so fawned over, but enjoying his attentions nonetheless “Though what would you do with it?”

“Wear it delicately in my hair?”

Her smile grew as she clearly found the thought quite funny.

“No? Perhaps in my cloak pocket then. A token of esteem from my dear daughter to carry with me through the day. Her little red rose.”

Her little symbol of love and lust.

Sansa nodded “I would like that.” She said, either through curtesy or genuine affection.

Which one it didn’t matter, as his hand threaded gently through her hair at the base of her neck, as his eyes dipped briefly to the hem of her bodice.

“My sweet girl…” he murmured “My beautiful little maiden.”

He saw the tip of her pink tongue dart out to wet her lips, perhaps in expectancy, as she was used to moments in front of the fire. Of this position. Petyr read in her eyes the un-spoken permission. At the very least, the un-spoken allowance.

He kissed her as a maiden should be, sweet and slow and soft.

She didn’t see his hand out of sight, gripping at the pillow besides him, nails digging into plush upholstery where it longed to dig into soft virgin skin.

**Author's Note:**

> It's been so long since I've written anything I've been happy with, so I'm glad to get this out, even if it is short. I plan to make this multi-chapter. Hope you guys like it!


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